


Finally Home

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Injured Sherlock, John Watson to the Rescue, Love Confessions, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Oral Sex, Post-Reichenbach, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 03:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10208975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: Mycroft informs John Sherlock is alive. Of course John takes part in the rescue. And they're done wasting time.





	

Sherlock Holmes was alive. _Sherlock Holmes is alive._ John stood in front of Sherlock’s imperious older brother, hands curling into fists. “It’s been two years. Why are you telling me this now?” John’s voice was calmer than he felt, the need to stay in control greater than his desire to punch the look off Mycroft’s face. For the moment.

“Because now, I am afraid, he is in trouble he can’t get out of alone.”

John snorted. Mycroft Holmes was never afraid. “You mean you can’t get him out it? What with all your spooks? Can’t just call up a favor from the Queen?” Bitterness seeped into his tone like frost spidering across a window.

Eyes still on him, Mycroft withdrew a small photograph from his coat. He silently offered it to John, angling so he couldn’t see it unless he took it from him.

Narrowing his eyes, John took the half step forward he needed to and snatched it from Mycroft’s hand. Turning the photo so he could see it, he felt his emotions lurching the other way.

Sherlock looked _small_. His hair had grown out into dark waves and he wore a ragged beard. But there was something in the way that he held himself that punched John in the gut. It was unmistakably _him_. And he was being held in a cell, God knew where, looking thin, ragged clothes clinging to his frame.

“I understand you worked with POWs in Afghanistan,” said Mycroft, quietly.

“Once,” said John, still looking down at the ghost in his hands.

“Then you understand the situation. He’s been held four months. We only just found him.”

Four months was a long time. I had been 23 months since Sherlock had died and a huge part of John had died with him. Eight months since he’d finally put down the bottle and tried to move on with his life. Six months since he started dating Mary, but that meant nothing now. After all it seemed, just perhaps, a miracle might be in order. “When do we leave?”

“Now, if you please,” said Mycroft, gesturing at the car idling behind him.

John gave a short nod. “I take it you already let my job know I’d be gone.”

“I took the liberty, yes.” 

John walked towards the car, but as he passed Mycroft he pivoted on his heel and grabbed the taller man by the tie, yanking him down to eye level. “You will _never_ lie to me like this again.”

Mycroft's mask didn’t crack but he nodded. “At the time we thought it was best.”

John yanked the tie a little harder, forcing him to take a step towards him. “I am a grown man, Mycroft Holmes. You will not treat me like a child that needs to be protected from Mummy and Daddy fighting. Sherlock is my responsibility too.”

“I know.”

John studied his face a moment, then let go, getting into the car as Mycroft smoothed his suit and followed him. 

The car started moving out into London. The interior of the car was shadowed and in the darkness, Mycroft spoke again. “For what it is worth, I am sorry.”

John was silent for a long moment, looking out at the streets. “I know,” he said at last. “And I know you were keeping an eye on me. Thank you.”

Mycroft made a noise of assent and they stayed silent the rest of the drive.

**

They arrived soon enough at a private hanger. John followed Mycroft inside and into the plane. There were a few others already on board, plus Anthea, and they used the flight time to go over the plans. It should be a simple in and out. It had been some time, but John had been on enough missions and raids that it all felt rather old hat.

Just before landing he changed into a camouflage uniform and accepted a rifle from one of the spooks. Mycroft had conveniently made himself scarce. John checked the weapon and nodded. He may have been called on more as a doctor the last few years, but the soldier was never far away.

Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, John also put a handgun on his hip and took stock of the medical kit sitting with the rest of the gear. It had everything he expected and then some, but that made sense. They didn’t know what shape Sherlock would be in when they found him. But they would damn sure get him out.

They landed just at twilight and moved quickly and quietly through the forest toward their target.

**

The first part went smoothly enough, but they encountered resistance once they reached the compound. John had no problem fighting his way inside, glad that the people Mycroft had chosen were good at their jobs. But of course he’d take no chances, especially not in something like this.

John shot a guard and kicked open a door, finding a handful of cells on the other side. He bent down and yanked the keys from the guard’s hip, going to the middle door and opening it.

Sherlock took a swing at him. John easily dodged and caught his wrist. “I’m here to get you out,” he hissed.

Blinking at him, recognition washed across Sherlock’s face. “ _John_?”

“Brilliant. Yes. Come on.” He put an arm around Sherlock to help him.

They’d nearly reached the steps again when someone came charging down towards them, swearing in a language that was decidedly not English.

John barely hesitated, pushing Sherlock to the side and raising his rifle again. The stranger all but squeaked, turning around and running the other way. For half a moment John considered pulling the trigger anyway, but he didn’t, slinging the rifle over his shoulder instead.

Sherlock had landed on his knees and was looking up at him. John could only imagine what he was deducing. “Come on,” said John again, offering his hand. Sherlock took it and leaned him as they headed back up.

The spooks cleared the way for him as he got Sherlock up and out into the compound. One of them had commandeered a vehicle and John helped Sherlock into, going straight into doctor mode now that they were being covered by others.

And Sherlock was in bad shape. Malnutrition, A bruised rib, plenty of cuts and bruises from obvious beatings. His wrist had been broken at some point and not set right; it would probably need to be broken again. No doubt that would put a damper on the violin playing for some time.

As he finished his examination he realized Sherlock was watching him. John brushed his long hair out of his eyes. “We’ll get you home soon.”

“You came for me.”

“Well, technically Mycroft did, but he was kind enough to make sure I was here, too.”

“Mycroft and kind don’t belong in the same sentence,” muttered Sherlock.

“Perhaps not, but you can still thank your brother later.”

Sherlock mumbled something and closed his eyes.

“Hey, stay awake, Sherlock. Need to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

He opened his eyes again. “You’ve been seeing someone.”

John cracked a small smile, somehow not surprised he’d deduced it. “Yeah, but I broke it off with her. Already got my things moved back to Baker Street. Or at least Mycroft said he took care of it.”

“He is being surprisingly helpful,” said Sherlock.

“Maybe so. Not a totally rubbish big brother, it seems.”

They pulled up to the plane just then. It had started to rain and Mycroft waited under his umbrella, looking utterly incongruous standing on a hidden airfield in the woods in his suit. John caught the movement of him tossing a cigarette away and could hardly blame the man.

Mycroft moved forward and opened the door, helping Sherlock out and sheltering him up the stairs and into the aircraft, John and the others close behind.

Mycroft and Sherlock vanished into the private cabin. John sighed and unslung his rifle, handing it off to the spook that was collecting the weapons. She pointed at his hip and he reluctantly handed over the pistol as well. He sat and buckled, feeling the plane start up and quickly spring into the sky.

He looked towards the door, but seeing it firmly closed, he settled back and closed his eyes, out of old habit grabbing a snatch of sleep while he could.

**

He woke to a touch from Anthea. She nodded at the closed door and moved away from him. John rubbed his face and stood, taking a breath before pushing open the door.

Mycroft was just putting down a razor and wiping Sherlock’s face. Sherlock sat in a bed, half-eaten tray of food on the side table. His hair had been trimmed back a bit, though it was still long. As the door opened Mycroft stood and exited. But not before John caught a glimpse of the upset on his face.

John walked over and took the vacated seat. “How are you feeling?”

“Mycroft says we should be landing in London in the next two hours.”

“Not what I asked.” John reached out and took his hand, feeling his pulse at the same time.

Sherlock eyed his hand, then looked up at his face. “You missed me.”

“Every day. I asked for a miracle. I asked for you not to be dead.”

“I heard you,” said Sherlock. He hesitated and looked down again. “I didn’t know you’d be so upset by my death.”

“You didn’t know?” John’s voice raised despite himself. Sherlock flinched and he tamped down his temper. “You didn’t know?” he repeated, quieter. “Sherlock, I lived with you, worked with you, managed my life around you for more than a year… and you thought you could just leave and I wouldn’t care? You thought there’d be no damage in your wake?”

Sherlock’s eyes were still averted. “John… I….”

“Look at me, Sherlock. Please. You owe me that much.”

Sherlock finally raised his gaze. He put his free hand over John’s. “I owe you a thousand apologies, John. I... I’ve never been important to anyone. I’ve never been anyone’s friend.”

John studied his face a very long moment. Then he leaned forward and kissed him, very very gently. Barely more than a chaste kiss.

Sherlock stared at him as he pulled away, for once, utterly at a loss for words.

John cracked a faint smile. “I love you, you git.”

“John…” said Sherlock softly.

“I know.” John climbed into the bed and lay next to him. “I’ve always known. Since that first night.”

Sherlock lay down, meeting John’s eyes and weaving their fingers together. “He was a very bad cabbie.”

“In more than one sense of the word.”

“Mycroft is insisting I go to the hospital when we land.”

“Good. I would, too. I’ll be in Baker Street when you’re released.”

Sherlock gave him a genuine smile. “Well it wouldn’t be home without you.”

“It wasn’t home without you either.”

Sherlock studied his face. “Two things?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep the uniform. Lose the mustache.”

John chuckled. “If you insist.”

Below him he could feel the plane start to angle downwards as they approached London and home.

**

Sherlock Holmes returned to Baker Street after a bit more than a week in hospital, his wrist in a cast. John had warned Mrs. Hudson, lest he give her a heart attack. He was surprised at how easily he resumed life there, even if sometimes he had to remind himself that Sherlock was alive and would be home soon.

John helped Sherlock up the stairs. He moved slowly, still recovering. There had been no sign of Mycroft since landing and John suspected that was by design. Sherlock looked around the flat as they came through the door and moved from John’s grasp, going to sit in his chair.

Heart aching, John took his own. In some ways it was like the last two years hadn’t happened. In other ways the last two years stretched like a gulf between them. Sherlock quickly settled into thought; John pulled out his laptop and started typing up a blog post.

Mrs. Hudson came up after a while. She smiled at the two of them and talked about how glad she was to see them both again. Sherlock actually listened to her and the three of them ended up sitting around the kitchen table, sipping tea and catching up. Or at least Mrs. Hudson talked about her life and how much she’d missed them.

Finally she headed back downstairs for the night. John got up to wash the dishes. Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop without asking and started looking up some things. John could only smile and shake his head.

A few minutes later Sherlock’s phone vibrated. He grabbed it and smiled. “Lestrade has a case for us.”

“He knows your back?” John hadn’t thought to call him.

“He visited me in the hospital,” said Sherlock, closing the laptop and typing a response.

“Oh. Are you up for a case?” asked John, drying his hands and knowing it probably didn’t matter. 

“Promise I won’t go jumping across rooftops. Come on.” Sherlock got up and grabbed his coat, suddenly full of energy. John could hardly resist, grabbing his own coat and following him.

**

They tumbled back into the flat near dawn, giggly and exhausted. Sherlock slung an arm around John. “You are ridiculous.”

“Me? You’re the most ridiculous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.” John led him up the stairs.

“Yes, but you tackled a _poodle_.”

“You said it was important.” John giggled again, pushing open the door.

“Lucky it didn’t bite you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m used to wrangling unruly creatures,” said John, eyeing him.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him. John moaned and stumbled back onto the sofa. Sherlock followed him down, climbing into his lap.

John’s hands rest on Sherlock’s hips as he kissed him back, then let his head drop onto the back of the sofa. “God, Sherlock.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, leaning down to kiss him with a little less haste. John tangled his hands in Sherlock’s hair. His heart ached and he knew they should sleep, but damn it had been far too long a wait. And then it had been too late. Now there was time.

Cupping the back of Sherlock’s head, he slipped his tongue into his mouth. Sherlock moaned and eagerly opened to him, shifting on John’s lap. There was so much he wanted to do. So much he needed. 

Sherlock must have felt the same way, because he pulled back and moved to his knees. He reached for John’s zip, but John put a hand over his. “We don’t need to rush. I’m here, you’re here.”

“Yes, but what if the poodle had bitten you? What if a cab has an accident? We don’t know how much time.”

John leaned down and kissed him. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.” 

He moved his hand and slouched back, letting Sherlock open his trousers with one hand and freed his cock. Sherlock wrapped a hand around him and gave him a stroke, making John moan softly. He peeled off his jumper and started unbuttoning his shirt.

Sherlock gave him a heated smile, wrapping his mouth around the head as he watched John undress. John groaned softly at the wet heat of his mouth, Sherlock’s tongue just flicking out to tease. 

John tangled a hand in Sherlock’s curls and gently pushed his head down. Sherlock took the hint and closed his eyes, bobbing his head.

“God, yeah, feels good,” whispered John, somehow not surprised that Sherlock seemed to have a talent for this as well. He peeled his undershirt off and Sherlock raised his head, leaning in to kiss his soft belly. John smiled fondly at him and pet his hair.

Sherlock nuzzled him for a moment, then went back to his cock, moving a little faster now, pulling small gasps from John. After only a few minutes John pulled him off. “I’ll come if you keep that up, and I want to be inside of you.”

Sherlock shivered at his words and got to his feet, heading to the bedroom and shedding his clothes as he went, or at least as well as he could with his injured wrist.

John shook his head as he toed off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers. “Let me help you.” He caught Sherlock around the waist and kissed his shoulder blade before tugging his shirt off his shoulders. 

They tumbled into bed and John crawled over Sherlock, kissing him deeply, cupping his cheeks. Sherlock arched up against him, his need obvious, hands on John’s shoulders. It was nearly perfect.

Breaking the kiss, John kissed his forehead and rummaged in the bedside drawer until he came up with some lube. He resolutely tried not to think about the possibility that Mycroft had made sure it was there.

As if noticing his attention had wavered, Sherlock gave his cock a stroke. He probably had noticed, actually, observant bastard. John smiled and kissed Sherlock again, then down his sternum, until he could take the man’s smaller cock into his mouth.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to groan. John took advantage of the distraction to coat his fingers and carefully press one into him.

“John!” moaned Sherlock. The way he said it sounded delightfully filthy to John’s ears. He raised his head and shifted so he could kiss Sherlock as he fingered him open.

They shifted to sipping kisses from one another’s lips, John methodically worked him open, his aching desire a low frisson, ready to burst forward but for now held at bay. Sherlock moaned underneath him, beautifully responsive in a way that John had only dreamed about.

Finally Sherlock broke away from him. “I’m ready,” he whispered. “Please. Take me.”

John could hardly resist such a plea. He added a bit more lube and coated his cock, watching Sherlock’s face as he began to press inside.

Sherlock spread his thighs a little wider, wrapping his legs around John’s waist. John pulled back and thrust in a deeper, carefully working him open, knowing how thick he was. Not that Sherlock seemed to have any complaints.

“Beautiful,” murmured John as he finally seated himself fully. “Okay?”

Sherlock blinked and focused him. “Yes. Perfect. _Move_.”

John pulled back and set a steady pace, stealing another kiss. He was surrounded in Sherlock, body and soul. It was everything he never thought he’d have, everything he’d ever wanted. He breathed in the scent of Sherlock, felt the way his body moved underneath him.

Sherlock’s hips rose and fell with his thrusts. As always, they worked together like a finely tuned machine. He started moving faster, feeling Sherlock’s cock dragging against stomach.

Apparently that was all Sherlock needed, because he moaned suddenly, gripping John’s shoulders, his release spreading warmly between them as his body squeezed around John.

John swore softly, gave one more thrust and followed him over, leaning down to kiss Sherlock, feeling their hearts racing together.

After a long moment of just holding one another, John pulled out carefully. He smiled and kissed him again before getting up for a cloth to wipe them both off. Finally he got back into bed. Sherlock curled up around him and John tugged the blankets over them both.

Sherlock breathed against his throat, arm and leg thrown possessively across him. John smiled, knowing they were truly home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to theartstudentyouhate and beltainefaire
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [merindab](http://merindab.tumblr.com)


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